wuck fork

title says it all. here's a cool song though:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJtG6CH6bYA

Another day, another plague
I still see the same old shit
Like a never-ending story
Life's passing by in front of my eyes

Everyday I wake up and things never change
It's getting hard to have faith in this world

Another day, another plague
It's like a cancer taking the life out of me
The only hope I had left is slowly dying

Everyday I wake up and things never change
It's getting hard to have faith in this world

Those days, have turned into years
Ant I haven't gained anything

Everyday I wake up and things never change
It's getting hard to have faith in this world

Why I love Hearthstone

Was 0-2 when I started playing this draft again. Consistently outplayed and punished a lot of opponents to win 10 matches in a row. Not your standard mage draft...

Daily Prompt 8/13/15

Write a list titled, "Things that are opening."

1. eyes
2. doors
3. windows
4. ears
5. caves
6. opportunities
7. businesses
8. jaws
9. skies
10. hearts
11. minds
12. people
13. walls
14. gates
15. shutters
16. bottles
17. jars
18. books
19. mouths

Song of the Day 8/13/15

Suicide Machine - Death

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZvI1mXY3QQ

Lyrics courtesy of darklyrics.com:

Controlling their lives

Deciding when and how they will die

A victim of someone else's choice

The ones who suffer have no voice

Manipulating destiny

When it comes to living, no one seems to care

But when it comes to wanting out

Those with power, will be there

Prolong the pain

How long will it last?

Suicide machine

A request to die with dignity

Is that too much to ask?

Suicide machine

How easy it is to deny the pain

Of someone else's suffering

[Solos: Schuldiner, Masvidal]

Robbed of natural abilities

In death they now seek tranquility

In a confused state of mind

Extending agony, they must be blind

Manipulating destiny

When it comes to living, no one seems to care

But when it comes to wanting out

Those with power, will be there

Prolong the pain

How long will it last?

Suicide machine

A request to die with dignity

Is that too much to ask?

Suicide machine

I really like this song for a lot of reasons. The riffs, drumming and solos are excellent like all of Death's music, but the lyrics really grab me. I often hear people assume heavy metal, and in particular death metal, are very superficial. The stereotype is death metal is just loud and angry and full of over-the-top violent lyrics, and while there is some truth to that, I think Death's music is full of very real issues.

Suicide Machine's topic is clear: euthanasia. I'm going to do a little assuming of my own and say the vast majority of opponents to euthanasia are Christians. Many of these people are probably also part of the right wing, politically-speaking, and are against any sort of national healthcare. My favorite line is:

"When it comes to living, no one seems to care
But when it comes to wanting out
Those with power, will be there"

There is great irony in the fact that opponents to euthanasia do not care about any of these people while they are alive, but suddenly have objections due to their beliefs. These opponents do not care about the life of the patient, they do not care about their suffering or the burden this puts on the family and friends of the patient. They only care that their religious beliefs are being transgressed, because people should wait for "God" to end the life naturally. I find this particularly funny, because what is more unnatural than letting a wounded person suffer in pain until a supernatural being decides to snuff them out? Seriously, this sounds like something H.P. Lovecraft would write about.

What kind of god leaves people to suffer and cling to a painful existence?

FTF - 2

“Status report!” Yuhl barked to no one in particular.
The same it was two minutes ago, the technician thought dryly. He spun around in his chair to face Yuhl.

“Working on it, sir, but there's little we can do. Damn fog pretty much ruins any hope at bringing advanced imagining online. I can revert to the basic cameras if you want. Thermal is a no go, I'm afraid.”

“Whatever it takes, just give me eyes on the main gate.”

With a quick nod the man swiveled back to his console and continued working.

Yuhl was uneasy. The fog screwing with the systems was nothing new, but it had rarely been to this extent. Yuhl's command chamber was the brain of the fortress and its cameras his eyes. He didn't like flying blind. Without the optic scopes they were completely reliant on routine sound offs from the front gate.

“Mister Stamper, double the guards both inside and out of the gate. I want the men at the front calling in every ten — no five minutes. Immediately.”

The huge guard at Yuhl's side nodded, the only noise marking his departure was the hiss-clank of the steel door shutting behind him. Stamper didn't talk much and he asked questions even less. For Yuhl that made a perfect chief of security.A true professional, that one, Yuhl mused. 
Not like the majority of his men, who cared only about the next pay stub dangling in front of them. Although most of the facility’s security force were ex-guardsmen, few retained the discipline or sobriety of their military days. And although Malkor was technically under the protection of the local subsector’s military, there had been no men to spare defending the outpost with the Third Greenskin War in full swing. Since his reassignment from his home planet’s defense force to Malkor, Yuhl had pushed relentlessly to reign his men in. There was improvement, to be sure, but security standards were still fairly lax. Routine inspections by Imperial officers were always nerve wracking for Yuhl, but nothing like the unscheduled inspection he was being subjected to.
It didn’t help he was being inspected by him. Yuhl shuddered at the thought.
“Do I unnerve you so, Commandant?”
Snapping from his thoughts, Yuhl turned to face the newcomer, rod-straight and rigid.
“Pardons, sir, I did not hear your approach,” he responded stiffly.
The man laughed as he strode into view, illuminated by the dull glow of the headquarter’s many flickering screens. He was of modest height and build, wearing a simple black trench coat over a grey vest and trousers. A plain, freshly shaven face was topped by salt and pepper hair that jutted out into a widow’s peak. His only noteworthy feature was his grey, calculating eyes. 
For all his simplicity and humility Yuhl could not forget who he was….or what he was.
“Subtlety is just one of my many talents,” the man said softly.
“You have many surprises it would seem, sir.”
He laughed again, but his eyes shared none of the mirth.
“So how fares the facility, Commandant Yuhl?”
The young man hesitated before responding. Each word had to be carefully chosen when dealing with the likes of this one.
“Nothing out of the ordinary sir, some problems with the exterior imaging….it’s the fog you see. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’ Your man Stamper almost ran me down in the hallway. Seems like quite the hurry for nothing.”
“I’ve doubled the detail at the gate and am personally receiving their updates, I assure you it is merely a precaution,” Yuhl tried to sound confident.
“Is it not during the calm that we must be most wary of the storm?”
He let the sentence hang for a long moment before walking away from Yuhl. With a wave of his hand, Yuhl marched over to him and out of earshot of his men.
“As you say, it is probably nothing... Should it be something, though, the details have been seen to, I trust?”
“Of course sir, the men have been thoroughly drilled and briefed on the matter. When the time comes, they will handle it professionally and to your...specifications,” Yuhl trailed off.
“I hope so, Commandant, any damages would be most upsetting. Remember these are violent, traitorous criminals. They will show your men no mercy and will not be easily stopped, nor reasoned with.”
“I have every faith in my men, sir,” Yuhl responded with a hint of annoyance. “But I still have not seen the records on these criminals. How will I know who they are, what they are capable of, or even what crimes they are charged with? Indeed how do I even know if they are guilty or innocent?”
“My order has an old saying, Yuhl, perhaps you have heard it.”
Yuhl forced himself to stare directly into the man’s eyes.
“Innocence proves nothing.”
***

FTF - 1

Malkor’s second star drooped just above the horizon, spilling hues of orange, purple and crimson onto the tree-ridden surface of the planet. In this prelude to night the forests were singing. Birds rustled and fluttered as the trees swayed softly in the breeze. Soon night would come and the forest planet’s inhabitants would grow quiet. With the night came the fog and that meant absolute stillness until dawn.

Lars Jenko’s mutterings were lost in torrent of twilight noise. He had snuck out of the bunker for a smoke and was struggling with the lighter. Each flick of the igniter produced a small flame that was snuffed out in a blink. Jenko continued to grumble curses as he cupped his hands around the defiant spark. With all the force of his lungs and a brief drop in the wind he was successful. He smiled and closed his eyes as he took a long, slow draw. The smoke was thick and pungent and Jenko took a few steps further from the bunker. A soft crack in the nearby woods made him start.

His shoulders slumped with relief as a small mammal scampered through the brush to his left.

Jenko was always fearful of his coworkers discovering him. Being a soldier bred repugnant habits and they were discouraged in the corporate militaries. A snarl curled on his face as he thought of his position. Babysitting a pioneer planet and its one-hundred-and-sixty-seven-God-Emperor-serving-moronic-gaks.

“Emperor damn this hunk of trees,” Jenko spat.

There always seemed to be something moving. Even if the wildlife was motionless the fog would sweep through, swirling and rushing like an ethereal tide. Jenko always felt nervous here, that something was indescribably and fundamentally wrong. He had laughed more than once at his own superstitions, but he never put them to rest. The guardsman had seen a century of violence in a decade.

He had seen men die of seeping, disfiguring diseases and toxins in the steaming jungles of Terlax. He had seen men ripped out from under themselves in the minefields on Kalar, a world scarred with trenches and shell-holes from two centuries of constant warfare. He had seen a thousand thousand men die in an instant during the campaign to retake Yahtun from separatists. Ships were ripped open by planetary defenses, spilling men and steel like the bowels of a great beast. He had seen entire cities burn from orbit, lit like candles on a cake. He had seen—

Too much, he sighed.

Jenko had to physically shake himself to cast aside those memories. Checking his chrono, the old soldier realized he had been gone for a long while now. Commandant Yuhl would have his head if he knew how long he'd been gone from his post. Yuhl was a professional soldier, younger than Jenko by almost twenty years, but he had friends in high places allowing for him to secure a comfortable, cushioned job behind a desk on an uneventful planet. Despite the jokes Jenko and the other men often made about their position, Yuhl was too proud to accept he had been sidelined to an insignificant post. He treated the security detail of Facility 238 as if he were guarding the Golden Throne itself.

Maybe he'd quit. Sell off what little he owned and settle somewhere for good. Yes, a nice little apartment on some soft paradise planet. Possibly Talris. Jenko had always been awed by the sea. Just as he began to dream of warm, ivory beaches gentle, sapphire waves, and some booze, obscura and girls to go with it a sharp cracking sound from somewhere in the fog made him snap to attention. Fumbling to maintain his grip on the smoke, Jenko swung his lasgun up one handed, the sling taut on his shoulder.

He remained that way for a long moment before finally convincing himself it was just the drugs, a critter in the woods or some other harmless cause. A small part of him though remained uneasy, convinced there was something out there. Jenko shivered, not from the cold, but from the sudden feeling he was being watched. This was more than enough to convince him he'd best head back to his post if not for avoiding a reprimand, but for his own safety.

And the fog rolled in behind him.

***

Behind one of the many glowing screens at Security HQ in Facility 238, a technician worked furiously to bring the auspex and thermal imaging cameras back to their normal status. Interference from atmospherics and the fog left the station practically blind and for that Yuhl was more overbearing than usual.

Joric - 1

1

            Like most evenings The Pale Rat was packed full of patrons. There was little else for entertainment in the small, rundown village of Hespa. Here the farmers and miners could drink away their meager earnings as well as their sorrows. Life had always been hard in the remote areas of the empire and Hespa was no different. The local, filthy peasants mingled with traders passing through on the way to Liscus, Barva or even as far north as Goran, the imperial capital. A sweltering fire popped and fizzled, driving the cold from the little inn. The heat was almost oppressive in the crowded place. The air was thick with smoke and smelled of sweat and spilled alcohol. Near the hearth, an elf merchant was bartering with a handful of traders.

            “Finest weapons and armor this side of the Torin River,” he was saying.

            “Still, at that price I could buy my own damn smithy!” One trader exclaimed.

            “Aye,” another nodded in agreement. “Hell I could buy an elf slave to go with 'em and make the bleedin' arms!”

            There was a roar of laughter from a crowd in the back of the bar, drowning out the squabbling merchants. Despite the harshness of their lives, the crowded tavern swelled with high spirits. A bard lead the rowdier (and drunker) patrons in bawdy drinking songs. Wine, ale and mead flowed, songs were sung and for a night the villagers enjoyed some respite from their wretched, short existence. Even the traders, stuck in this shit hole of a town by the last of the winter snows were enjoying themselves. For a single night, fleeting and rare as it was, the townspeople were happy.

            Except for one slouched figure at the bar.

            Joric was finishing his sixth drink of the evening. Or was it his seventh? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered to Joric except procuring his next flagon of ale.

            “'Keep,” he slurred, “another!”

            “Wine, sir?” the barkeep asked. He was a fat man with a ruddy face and a bushy, brown beard greying at the edges.

            “None of that pansy, elven swill. Ale! Mead!”

            “Well, which it'll be?” He was quickly growing tired of this man at the bar. The man had refused to hand over his sword and had been a depressing lump all night, casting a pall over the jovial atmosphere inside the tavern.

            He also had yet to pay for a single one of his drinks.

            “Whichever is strongest and cheapest. In that order, 'keep.” Joric finished his sentence with a resounding belch.

            Summoning his paltry courage, the barkeep made his stand.

            “Pardon, sire, but ye haven't even paid fer one drink, let alone the last si—”

            Joric looked up from his tankard, eyes glinting and dangerous.

            “Look, wretch, I'm not going to pay you to wag your tongue. I'll pay when I've had my goddamn fill, you understand? You'll do as you're told if you want to keep your tongue in that fat mouth of yours,” he spoke in a moment of surprising sobriety.

            The barkeep simply stared for a moment, mouth flopping open and closed like a gasping fish.

            “Get on with it!” barked Joric.

            Jumping into action, the pudgy man scurried off through a door behind the bar.

            Joric swilled the last of his ale around before draining the remnants in one long gulp. Wiping the froth away from his mouth he turned back to the traders. They were gone though, probably having retired for the night. Although the ground was still powdered in snow, spring was hot on the heels of winter and the roads, though uncomfortable, were open. Tomorrow the merchants would flock out of this town like stampeding cows, each trying to make it to market before the other. With their carts they would also take the excitement and money that had livened up the pathetic, desolate village.

            Along with Joric's only hope.

            A hushed silence came through the tavern as the bard begin a new song. Unlike the other songs he had played this night, this one begin plaintive and soft. As the bard's voice filled the quiet bar, Joric couldn't help but hear the words. This one wasn't about some knight trying to “sheath his sword” in a maiden, or a foolish nobleman outsmarted by a commoner. The lyrics described a king who was just and kind. A man that defended his people and kept them well fed. A man that made trade flourish, cities prosper and help heal a war-torn land.

            A man named Emperor Sigismund II.

            Joric snorted derisively. Sigismund II was an incompetent fop as far as he was concerned. A bumbling fool who had tanked trade, failed to ease famine, done nothing to stop the plague spreading through the east and who had waged an unnecessary, unjustified war. The war against Thilia had been much longer than the Emperor had intended. Fighting had raged for six long years before Thilia's king bent the knee and assimilated into the empire. Sigismund had claimed the war was a result of border raids by the Thilians after their emissary had been dismissed from the imperial court for, presumably, breaking a trade agreement.

            Joric thought that unlikely. What was likely was that Sigismund had squandered the royal treasury on his own lavish lifestyle and idiotic ventures. Rumor was the throne was in debt to Thilia and a war would kill two birds with one stone. Like a bloated predator the empire had descended on Thilia, hungry for its gold, crops and raw materials. The kicker was, Joric laughed darkly to himself, that the war wasn't even the worst of it.

            While the war was killing all the men, the farms went unheeded. More died from famine in the winter after war was declared than in two years of battle. Sigismund had done nothing to stop it. He refused to disband his armies for winter, instead insisting on bloodier and riskier campaigns that did little more than grind both nations down. In the end, tens of thousands alone had died for the Emperor. And for what? A patch of land? To cover the debts of the incompetent monarch? The peasants had certainly lost much and gained nothing. No coin or compensation was handed out in the streets. Not even the nobles had gained much, unless the loss of sons and war debts counted. And who did the aristocracy turn to stuff their own coffers after the war? The peasants!

            Despite his bitter criticism for the crown, Joric had no sympathy for the commoners.  He was almost sickened by how the crowd was swooning as the bard finished his dirge. The peasants didn't fight, didn't stand up for themselves, they accepted their position as the nature of things. They were as passive as sheep, letting their masters spend them frivolously. And like sheep they walked willingly to the slaughter, oblivious and cowardly.

            The bard had finished his song now and spoke to the crowd, “That is the tale of the great, and alas late, Emperor Sigismund II. Gods above show mercy to a man of such greatness, as we may never see the likeness of him again.”

            It took a few moments for the bard's words to cut through Joric's drunkenness. Dead. The emperor was dead. That didn't change his plan, only encouraged it. For the first time in far too long, Joric felt hope swell up inside of him. Between now and dawn he had to find a way to Goran. Maybe he could find one of those merchants he had overheard...

            The barkeep returned with another foaming mug and set it down none-too-gently in front of the gloomy man, shaking Joric from his musings.

            “There. Now pay up,” the man demanded.

            His anger with the barkeep completely forgotten, Joric didn't even argue. Several pockets worth of searching resulted in a pitiful mound of copper coins appearing on the bar top. The barkeep let out a long sigh.

            "Not nearly enough for three drinks, let alone all damn seven o' yours."

            "Take it or leave it. I have nothing else," Joric responded simply.

            The keep eyed Joric for a long moment. He was a man of average height and weight, with shaggy, dark brown hair and pale green eyes. An old and battered chain mail hauberk covered his travel worn breeches and tunic. A dented wooden shield, a frayed and filthy tabard and a gleaming sword strapped across his back completed Joric's ensemble.

            "The sword," the fat man said with a gleam in his eye.

            "What?"

            "The sword," he repeated. "Should cover all o' your debts and make sure you don't leave a cripple."

            It was at that moment Joric became aware of the men standing over him. A quick glance told him they were three local farmhands turned bouncers. Tall and strong, armed with knives and farm tools. He let out a bark of a laugh as he turned back to his drink. With a flick of his eyes, the barkeep ordered his men to take the sword. Confident, a young farmer extend a hand towards the hilt. Three against one drunken sod, they were sure any confrontation would be quick and easy. One of the men reached out to grab the hilt while the others mocked Joric.

        “Coward!” one shouted. “He won't e'en stand and face us!”
“Drunken cunt. Look at 'em boys, this one is more full o' ale than courage!” Another chimed in.
Joric's first punch left the man on the ground clutching a broken nose. For a drunk he moved fast, batting aside a clumsy thrust from one of the remaining men and shoving him over the bar. The last man merely stood in place, a pitchfork aimed directly at Joric's stomach. A slowly spreading smile revealed the farmer's brown teeth. 
Joric's taunt never left his lips as the man with the broken nose grabbed Joric's arms from behind. As the last man climbed back over the bar, Joric now found himself helpless and surrounded.
“Oh we're gonna take so much more than the sword now,” the one with the pitchfork cackled.
“Fuck you,” Joric emphasized with a lob of spit.
As the rusty pitchfork closed in, Joric made one desperate attempt at escape. His boot came down hard on the man holding him. As his grip loosened, Joric followed with an elbow to the eye. With a scream, the other man plunged his pitchfork straight at Joric only to stop a foot away, face scrunched up confused. 
With a twist Joric removed his sword from the man's chest and let him fall to the ground. He gasped, shuddered and lay still.
The last farmer standing simply dropped his knife and held his hands up, backing away slowly from the crazed drunk and the quickly spreading pool of crimson.
It was then Joric realized how quiet the tavern had become. The bard had stopped playing and the singing had died out. Merchants and locals alike stared wide-eyed as Joric cleaned his blade on the dead man. 
The inn keeper didn't so much as make a sound when Joric strode out of the building into the night.